


It's Not A Date (Okay, it is)

by ghettoassenglishman



Series: Take my hand--Take My Whole life too [57]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Dinner, Fluff, Jealous!Mickey, M/M, Overexcited!Ian, Restaurants, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, they go on a date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-25 00:33:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3789973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"“I mean, I'm wearing a shirt, you're wearing a shirt. I supposing this place is a sit down meal sort thing, which actually uses utensils – That's what-” He pulls out his fingers, lifting three up. “The Three main qualities that make a date, and look at that – you've got all three. Bingo!” "</p><p>   For Lovely Anon - ( Prompty: Ian & Mickey on a date *disregard the majority of that shitshow season 5 pls*) Ian and Mickey go on a date, this time not at Sizzlers, and everything happens to go tits up, in a strangely good way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not A Date (Okay, it is)

**Author's Note:**

> So I went with writing them going to some fancy-ass restaurant inside of Sizzlers because I have literally had this idea in my head for weeks and this fic just completed it! I hope you like it?? 
> 
> Prompt me guys : im-an-angel-y0u-ass.tumblr.com

 

Ian jolts up as soon as the sharp pinch to his leg rushed through his body. It wasn't like he was a light sleeper, but he liked to ignore what was going on around him as soon as his head hit the pillow, but this time the pinches turned into punches and as much as he wanted to keep his eyes closed, enjoying the action of sleeping, it was irritating the shit out of him. “Fuck...Off!” He kicks his leg backwards, hitting against something hard – which he hoped felt the pain as much as he little toe did – he grunts into his pillow, awaiting his death sentence.

 

A grunt echoes behind him, he doesn't have to be a scientific genius to work out its Mickey behind the noise. There's a moment of silence, and for once Ian felt that Mickey understood his passion for being lazy all day, until a soft but heavy object hits against the top of his head. “Get the fuck up, Gallagher, its getting fucking dark already.”

 

“More excuse to sleep.” Ian grumbles into the bundle of sheets he managed to create around his head. Then of course, Mickey flicks the light on – because he's a dick who doesn't like searching for his clothes in the dark – blinding Ian despite the fact he was hidden within his own fort of pillows.

 

Mickey sighs dramatically as he slammed each drawer of the dresser, purposely. He rummages through a ton of shit, trying to find a top that Ian would wear to stir up a party in Mickey's pants. “Get the fuck up, asshole, we're going out.” Mickey had been planning this for a good forty-eight hours, Ian was not going to lie in bed and just mug him off. No fucking way.

 

“I don't want to go out.” The redhead buries himself further into the bed, pulling the pillow over his ears, to block out the extremely loud racket Mickey was purposely making around the room. “Just leave me alone.”

 

The words strike Mickey, like every time, a distant flashback playing before his mind of the day Ian wouldn't leave the bed, the day that Mickey felt his world crumble in the matter of four words. He chews at his bottom lip, questioning his actions and even his speech. “I ain't fucking asking you, I'm telling you. Now get up.” He had learnt that treating Ian like glass wasn't the wisest of idea's.

 

Mickey grabs the nearest item of clothing, that wasn't his newly pressed shirt, and lobbed it towards Ian's head, that started to poke out from the top of his blanket.

 

“Why are you doing this.” Ian whined, letting out a helpless, overacted cry as he pushed himself up against the bed. Mickey folded his arms, amused by the struggling man before him that he called his boyfriend. Ian had laid his head against the sheets, his ass stuck straight up in the air. He should of expected Mickey to smack it, he was literally dangling his ass like a carrot to the donkey. (Not that either of them were those things, he just felt it fit once he wiggled his ass for emphasis.)

 

Mickey harshly slaps his palm against the perfect, covered ass before him. He laughs to himself at the groan of frustration that flies back in return. “I'm fucking hungry, that's why.” His belly growls, adding to the mixture, he steps before the mirror and checks himself over once or twice.

 

“Then go to the fucking kitchen.” Ian still snaps, dragging himself up onto his knees, yawning loudly into the palm of his hand. Mickey watches him through the reflection of the mirror, smirking to himself proudly at the fact he got this beautiful, stubborn-assed specimen. All to himself. Ian knew it was about time he got up, but he didn't want to, he wanted to stay right there and just embrace the warmth he created in their bed, against the icy cold of the house.

 

“Or just bring me something back, it ain't hard.” Ian adds, sloppily pulling the button-up Mickey had took out into his lap.

Pulling a face, Mickey flips him off. God, this was why he didn't do nice things. “We eat in every single fucking night, lets go out for a change-” He watches as Ian fiddles sleepily with the hem of his shirt, he's had enough. “You know what, fucking forget it. This why I don't do nice things, this is why I don't act like I give a shit...” Mickey rambles as he storms into the bathroom, suddenly feel himself inhale the personality of a chattering Gallagher, he furiously slams bottles around in the cabinet above the toilet, making sure that Ian heard him. Once he got out, Ian's puppy-dog eyes are pouting towards him.

 

“Why have you gotta be so fucking dramatic, and you say I overreact.” Ian sighs, giving the little strength he had left to pull the button-up around his arms and around his chest. Mickey is trying so hard not to pounce on the fucker, in both ways; he either wanted to kick the dicks ass or ride the dicks ass – there was no in-between.

 

Clenching his fists, Mickey paces the floor. “What, so you are actually refusing for me to take you out? Are you fucking sick or something, you better not expect this shit again.” He rubs at his chin angrily, trying to hold it together before he smashed something. The mood had decreased instantly, but Ian still remained trying to get dressed. Even if his hair was all spiked and adorable, Mickey would not give in to that innocent role.

 

“So, like a date?” Ian raises his eyebrows, suddenly making the room feel a little lighter. Just one smile and Mickey's fucking gone. It happened every time and each time he got even more irritated with the fact that Ian knew the ways to keep him grounded.

 

Mickey shakes his head, blankly. “No, its not a fucking date.”

 

“Sounds like a date to me.” Ian shrugs, leaving two buttons open against his shirt. “I mean, I'm wearing a shirt, you're wearing a shirt. I supposing this place is a sit down, which actually uses utensils – That's what-” He pulls out his fingers, lifting three fingers. “The three main qualities that make a date, and look at that – you've got all three. Bingo!” The redhead waves his hands up in the air like a child – God, Mickey wished his kid was there, he would be easier to take out.

 

Flipping him off, Mickey shoves a pair of black jeans into Ian's chest. “I ain't a fucking date, now get them on before my insides eat their way out.” His stern voice leaves the room, Ian smirking behind his back like some kid on acid. Mickey might even have some that could calm him down, to be in fact.

 

“I don't think that's possible, you'd probably just die.” Ian explains, scooting along the bed to pull his jeans on. He leans back, his legs spread wide in the air as he slips his ankles into the pants. Mickey watches him, shaking his head at the utter childish manner his boyfriend still lived in. “What?”

 

“You're full of fucking rainbows you know that? it's basically firing out your ass.” Mickey comments, swatting Ian's legs that were dangerously close to his face. He leans over to the side-table, grabbing onto his lighter and pack of smokes before his whole body hurls into it. “What the fuck Gallagher?”

 

Ian pops his head from around the shadow of his legs, his jeans nearly up his ass, he grins deviously, giggling to himself. “Don't mind me, Mick, I just really fucking excited for our date.” The big kid, shook his legs in the air, hips buckling up so he could pull the jeans fully over his ass.

 

Mickey grunts, too forcefully, “How many times have I gotta fucking tell you, this isn't a date.”

 

“Whatever you say, Mick.” Ian sniggers, jumping excitedly off the bed and into the bathroom. “If they've got utensils, its a fucking date.”

 

***

 

“Woah, slow down firecracker.” Ian chuckles from behind Mickey, trying to catch up to his boyfriend who had been speeding down the side-walk for the past ten minutes. Ian's been cracking jokes, pulling his leg about the name of the night – fucking dates – and just taking the moral piss for the whole duration and Mickey is only just in the right mind state to keep calm.

 

Mickey rubs the back of his neck, stopping before the doors of a rather high-class restaurant that he feels like an idiot stepping into. “If it wasn't for you lazy-ass we wouldn't be fucking late, would we?” He pulls the door open, swiftly, the back whacking against the door stop behind it. The brunette doesn't bother holding the door open for Ian – he wouldn't expect him too – and the glass hits Ian straight into the face.

 

“Ah, shit!” Ian cries out, holding his hand against his nose. Pulling it away, he catches the flow of blood coming from it. “What the hell did you do that for, what the fuck are we late for, too?” He grunts, erratically, as Mickey fails to answer him. Struggling to keep his blood away from his white shirt, he holds his hand tightly against his face. He follows Mickey to the table booking desk.

 

Mickey finally turns, his face flushed with both nerves and frustration. “What the fuck happened to you?” He nearly yells out, not bothering to apologising to the opposing guests who didn't look to impressed by his language.

 

Ian rolls his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh I don't know, maybe because you don't have any manners and just slammed the door right in my face.” He's groaning, and whining, and heaving like a little bitch and Mickey flexing his head from side to side trying to rid of the sound.

 

A waitress barges past them, Mickey takes his chance to shout over. “Hey, Lady! Can a man not get a fucking tissue for his pathetic nose bleed?” The waitress takes in the two, scowling a little under his morphed, faked expression. She scurries off and then Ian slams his foot right into Mickey's ass, kicking him forward.

 

“Ay, fucking watch it!” Mickey shouts, frowning towards the people stood infront of them. Fucking rich fucks and their judging. “Can't go fucking any where without being looked at like we're scum – Jesus Christ, Ian. Would you stop fucking kicking me?” He catches Ian's foot and lets the boy hobble around for a little while, until he realises that they are in a civilised restaurant not a play barn.

 

“That's for calling me pathetic, you ass.” Ian shoves at his shoulder lighter, clocking the waitress turning the corner and walking over to them. “Thanks.” He smiles genuinely, taking the roll of tissue and dabbing it against his nose. Mickey turns, snickering to himself. “Fucking girl.” He mutters, shooing the slow family before them away from the desk.

 

Ian lightly kicks his ass one more time, earning him a threatening look. He smirks, his freehand leaning against the top of the counter as Mickey blabbed a load of shit towards the waitress behind the desk. “Mickey, I thought we just walked in and chose a table?”

 

“Chill the fuck out, alright. I fucking booked us one.” He eyes Ian's slowed nose bleed for a second his face filled with concern, until he turns back and starts rabbiting on. “So, you got our table or what, we actually want to eat, you know.”

Ian gasps, feeling a little special. “You actually booked us a table. Is it Christmas or some shit, you're never this nice or organised. You can't even fold a simple pair of jeans – you know that-” His gaze directs to the middle of the twos conversation, the waitress stares blankly. “He can't even fold a pair of fucking jeans and he books us a table at this place, Jesus. I've trained him well.”

 

Mickey's glare is more than a picture. “When you've finished telling her our fucking life story maybe then we can actually go sit down and eat?” He shakes his head, pulling his credit card out of the machine – well the one he nabbed from the store across the way – and shoved Ian towards the rows of tables in the middle of the restaurant. “Fucking move Gallagher, a nose bleed doesn't paralyse you.”

 

“So, where are we sitting?” Ian asks, scanning the room. Mickey shrugs, squinting as he read out the number of their table over and over. “Table 40?” Ian catches on, he nods towards the direction of an empty table.

 

“How the fuck did you know that?” Mickey tilts his head, making sure he had the seat furtherest away from the rest of the people sat in there. Ian flings himself into his seat, nearly toppling the table over. Mickey grabs onto his wrist, keeping him steady. “Will you calm the fuck down, Jesus.”

 

Ian drops his bloody tissue onto the table, grinning wildly. “I'm just, I guess I'm really fucking happy that you took me out on a date. I never thought we'd get here.” He confesses, pulling the menu up to hide his face. Mickey whacks his own menu against Ian's, hearing the giggle from behind the paper. Before Mickey can retaliate his words, Ian's already imitating him. “I know, it's ain't a fucking date. But that's what you think, I can call it whatever I want.”

 

“No you can't.” Mickey pulls down Ian's menu.

 

Ian challenges,“Why not?”

 

“Because I'm fucking paying, so I get the say in what we call it. What we eat and even what sexual favours you give me later on.” He hums nonchalantly,ignoring Ian from across the table. He mutters the food over again to himself, trying to make sense of the gibberish they came out as.

 

“So it is a date then.” Ian says again, this time he did it just to piss Mickey off. (So what, he had a thing for a frustrated Milkovich, try and tell him he's wrong.)

 

Mickey crumbles into his arms. “Fuck off, Gallagher.” He grumbles.

 

Ian snickers and grabs hold onto the menu again, reading through all of the foods, asking more than a billion questions. “ _Hey, what the fuck does this mean? Is that a snail, oh my god. You can eat snails? Mickey why don't you get that creamy chicken, so I can eat it? Oh shit, its so fucking expensive, did you rob a bank to pay for this?_ ” Mickey chooses to ignore the constant ramble until Ian actually comes up with a verified question. “Why don't we just get chips and burgers?”

 

“We could of got that from down the road for a hell of a lot cheaper?” Mickey points out, feeling himself shrink into his chair through the feeling of being uncomfortable.

 

“I don't want to eat anything that I can't pronounce.” Ian states, finger running along the long list of American foods that actually made sense, and were a little cheaper. Mickey kicks him under the the table, smirking as the redhead reaches down to cup his leg. The blood was still smeared under his nose and Mickey nearly lost his breath looking at him. “Ain't that saying the wrong way round asshole, aren't you supposed to experiment or some shit?”

“I'm not really a experimental guy.”

 

Mickey nods, smugly. “Oh, I thought you were”

 

“You would.” Ian smirks, already knowing what Mickey was referring to.

 

****

 

They managed to get through the main course and the pudding without any disasters. Except, the waiter kept on checking Ian out and giving Mickey sly digs about not being good enough. Mickey could handle a little you-can-look-but-can't-touch-game because come on, Mickey had that at one point with Gallagher so he knew how the kid felt, but this was getting way too much now.

 

“...shit, I need another drink, I don't want to get all weird at the end of our date..” Ian mutters to himself, picking up his empty glass and waved it around in the air like an idiot.

 

“It ain't a fucking date.” Mickey mutters to himself, hoping that at one point he could convince himself that it was true. “Gallagher, what the fuck you doing?” He reaches up to grab onto Ian's arm but ends up being soaked by the remains of the warm beer lingering at the end of the glass. He splutters but Ian seems to not notice his suffering.

 

“I'm getting the waiter, I need another drink -” He smirks at Mickey's enhanced jealously. “Hey – waiter, yeah you!”He points to the guy that couldn't stop running around for him, the guy that pissed Mickey off so much Ian wanted to fuck Mickey over the table right there, right then. The waiter has his hands full, a tray full of filled up glasses, he storms over but in his step his trips, the tray scattering over -

 

Mickey springs up, soaked in beer and whatever posh shit they all drank in there. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He whips his hair from side to side like a wet dog, his eyes only seeing red, he glances down at his shirt, soaked through from the spillage, he grunts – his fists clenching against the sides.

 

Ian watched in shock, mouth a gape. The tray of glasses had showered over Mickey, the beer spilling all down him, soaking him through. Ian didn't know whether to laugh or to feel sorry for the waiter because he knew Mickey wouldn't let this shit go. Especially now the whole place had turned to their attention. “Mick-” He stands up, chair falling to the table.

 

“I didn't mean to, I-” The waiter tried to explain himself before Mickey launched a punch against his jaw.

 

“Mickey!” Ian shouted over the commotion of the crowd, he runs to the impact point and tries to grab onto Mickey's arm, that's punching into the side of the waiter. “Mickey, stop-” Mickey's elbows hits back, winding him in the side. Ian nearly falls over, his stomach turning with the word, he shakes his head back into reality and tries to jump onto his boyfriends back.

 

Mickey wasn't killing someone on their date.

 

“You mother fucking-” Mickey shouted between hits. For one thing, the kid sure did hit a few back, he had pulled Mickey to the ground by a grip onto his legs and they ended up rolling against the floor, knocking a couple of tables over in the process. Ian followed, hands all over the place, he leans back in to grab Mickey out of it when the waiter mistakens him and throws a huge punch right into his jaw.

“Fuck-” Ian gasps out, his head hitting against the edge of the table. The ringing sound in his ears are not good, but then he feels Mickey hovering over him, a smirk within his bleeding teeth, his shaking hand from the adrenaline palming the side of his face.  “Hey, Gallagher, are you okay?”

 

Ian nods, clutching to the back of his head, then he feels the weight on him getting pulled off. A manager, he hopes, has grabbed onto the scruff of Mickey's neck dragging him up. The other one pulls Ian up aggressively, chucking his jacket into his chest. “We do not tolerate violence in our restaurant, now I suggest you leave here before we call the police.”

 

Mickey restlessly pulls out of their hold, fists flying. “Call the police you posh fuck. Been there done that, got the fucking mug shot. You want to see?” He pulls out his wallet, but before he humiliates himself even more Ian grabs him by the arm and pulls him away from the crowd. They both rush out of the door, Mickey made sure he kicked over a couple of plants on the way out.

 

“ _There_ , you fucking dicks.” He kicks down a plant by the main doors.

 

Ian pushes him away from it, chuckling. “Alright, Muhammed Ali, calm the fuck down, yeah?” He takes in all of Mickey's injuries; nothing serious, a bust lip, mouth full of blood, gash in his eyebrow, a couple of stitches needed in the crown of his head, nothing he couldn't fix when they got back.

 

Suddenly, Mickey approaches him with a sweet smile plastered against his face. “That was fun, huh?” He wounds an arm around Ian's shoulders, his shirt slightly riding up a little.

 

“Yeah, for you maybe.” Ian huffs out. “Now we can never go in there again.”Not that he wanted to. It just wasn't them; polished floors, candles fucking everywhere, music that made you want to fall asleep into your potato and leak soup.

 

“It was shit anyway.” Mickey admitted for the both of them, his hand gripping tight against Ian's arm as they stumbled down the street. He looks through the corner of his eye, catching the already-forming bruise against Ian's jaw. “That fuck do that to you?”

 

Ian looked a mess, his bloody nose now running again, his hair all tangled from his fall, his jaw already purpling. Mickey didn't look picture perfect either; his top was a little ripped, as well as being soaked through with expensive beers and wines, his face looked like it had been dumped in a tray of gutted fish. (They still looked fucking hot though)

 

“You sorted him out pretty good, so don't worry about it.” Ian smacks Mickey on the back proudly. (So the fuck what, he was proud that Mickey fought a guy whilst in a fancy restaurant, you don't get many guys like that. Ian was lucky to have found him) They sway along the side-walk, trying to catch eachother each time they stumbled.

 

Mickey gulps harshly, his throat causing him to wince out loud. “I'm sorry I fucked up our date.” He apologises, feeling guilty that he had planned something nice for Ian, and as usual he ruined the fuck out of it; slamming a door in Ian's face, booking the wrong fucking table, getting jealous of some waiter, punching the hell out of the waiter, letting Ian get hurt.

 

Ian stops them in the middle of the street, he's a little drunk, he's a little off his head in the scent of Mickey Milkovich, but fuck it. “Thought you said it wasn't a date?” He tilts his head, the light from the lamp post nearby shining against his grazed face.

 

“It ain't a date until I fight off the fuck that tries to get his hands down your pants.” Mickey winks, raising an eyebrow as if he was saying you-know-what-I-mean. Ian steps closer, his smile matching Mickey's in the most beautiful way.

 

“Is that what that was?” He smirks, loving nothing more than Mickey being all protective over him.

 

“Yup.” Mickey nods – he swears his concussed or something because he can't help but feel all weird in side and he's not sure whether to blame that on the bleeding of his head, or the fact that Ian always made him feel like this.

 

The redhead pulls Mickey against his chest, his hands wrapping themselves around his waist. He looks down through his lashes, biting his lip as Mickey looks up. “I'd say I had a really good fucking time.”

 

“Really?” Mickey looked shocked, trying to hide away his blushing cheeks in Ian's chest.

 

Ian nods, kissing the bloody scalp that laid against him. “Really.” He didn't have to question it, because he always had a fucking good time with Mickey. Even if he did nearly break his nose.

**__ **


End file.
